


Such Selfish Prayers

by marchingjaybird



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel experiments with human sensations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such Selfish Prayers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon on Tumblr, my first attempt at wingfic! This is set pretty close after Castiel first raises Dean, because I like Cas being a freaking alien and not knowing how anything works. <3

Castiel leaves the hotel early in the morning.

It is a shabby affair, low-slung and cheap, crouching near the Interstate like a beetle. They stop at many hotels like it, their bodies long inured to scratchy sheets and the miasma of smells that other humans leave behind. Castiel is both accustomed to and repulsed by that level of familiarity; prior to his time on earth, occupying this vessel, he spent much of his time in company with his brothers and sisters. Even when they were silent, his mind was filled with the Voice, and so this fraternity of travelers is not one of the many concepts that he finds foreign. It is not, however, something that he enjoys. Humans, by and large, are difficult creatures to live with.

It has not escaped him that he is living _as_ one at the moment. The vessel that he occupies suits his needs; Jimmy Novak was a healthy human, and though his body is not in peak physical condition, it is fit enough that Castiel can push it past its normal parameters without damage. Its wants and needs are easy to subsume, as any vessel's should be. The sensations of its limbs and organs are another thing entirely, however, and against his better judgment, Castiel has begun experimenting with them.

His favorite by far is the widely varied feedback that he receives from the skin. It is a miracle of creation, the largest organ in the human body, wrapped tight around the bone and gristle and pulsing, pumping viscera. It holds them together and, perhaps more importantly, ties them to this world.

Castiel's feet skid as he walks down the embankment behind the hotel. Above him, cars rush past; none of them will witness this, too absorbed in their own journeys to turn their gaze aside. The windows of the hotel facing him are shuttered against the morning sun. There are no vagrants sleeping beneath the overpass. Aside from the birds that perch in the tall pine trees and a stray cat that has ventured out of the undergrowth, Castiel is wholly alone. Satisfied, he begins to disrobe.

Coat, jacket, tie, shirt, everything above the waist is discarded in a neat heap. Other times, in more remote locations, he has stripped fully, but this will do for now. Sam and Dean will be waking soon and he wishes to be there. His indulgence can only last a few minutes.

It is strange to allow the body to feel; suppressing its needs is second nature to him now. He is never hungry, never tired. He does not perspire or grow dehydrated or feel desire. Physical sensations are entirely foreign to him. Had he not found the Winchester brothers some three weeks ago, car pulled to the side of the road while the two of them basked like lizards in the warm grass, he would never have discovered the joy of his own skin.

Arching his back, he spreads his wings wide, shaking them out, listening to the feathers as they rattle and snap in the breeze. He does not look at them, for they are misshapen and ugly. Even an angel cannot descend into Hell without incurring some form of damage; when Castiel drew Dean out, his wings were singed and scorched, handfuls of pinions ripped out and left behind. Once, they were silvery gray, broad and powerful, things of light and glory. In this vessel, they have taken on a physical presence, influenced perhaps by the perceptions and expectations of the human world. They are ragged now, and stained, as though someone splashed black paint across his back. He has tried many times to wash the stain away, but the fires of Hell burn cold and their soot remains forever.

And so he does not look, he only stretches them out and closes his eyes against their shadow on the ground. This is the delicate part, the opening of Jimmy Novak's senses. He must be careful, selective. The first time Castiel experimented, he simply let the host flood through and the hunger pains of his host body nearly crippled him. They are phantom things - he nourishes the body as it needs in order to maintain it - but humans are creatures of habit and an empty stomach equals hunger to them, regardless of whether they truly require sustenance. He has become more subtle since then, though, and in a series of delicate touches, he allows the sensations of the skin to awaken.

The sun pours down on him like warm liquid and he sighs softly. His wings rattle, tilt. They are always cold now, always aching, but the sun brings him some measure of relief. It prickles his skin, heating him inside and out, and Castiel closes his eyes in bliss. Before he came to Earth, he believed that humans were God's chosen children because it was what he was taught. Now, he believes it truly. He has seen the beauty they are capable of, the gifts of sensation and experience that they are given. He feels the sun on his back and he envies them, just a little.

"Cas!" He hears Dean's voice as if through a filter. It takes him several seconds to realize that it is real, that the footsteps he hears coming towards him are not echoes of the past. He stands quickly, snapping his wings shut and tucking them against his back. There is no sense in wiping them from Dean's sight. He has already seen and, selfishly, Castiel wishes to keep them physical that they can still soak up the warmth of the sun.

So he turns, shirtless, wary, more angelic than Dean has ever seen him before. The human comes toward him, a faint smile touching his lips, as though he is pleased. As though he has seen something wonderful. "Cas," he says, stopping short, too far away. It confuses Castiel that he insists so rigorously on his _personal space_ when, in truth, Castiel has been with him, at his shoulder, for years now. "What are you doing?"

"Stretching," Castiel replies. He has no desire to explain himself, and twists his body as Dean tries to circle around behind him.

"I've never seen your wings before," Dean says. "Are they always there?"

"Yes." Castiel pauses, narrows his eyes. Dean, sensing the angel's reticence about these extra appendages, has stopped trying to get a closer look. "They are not usually physically manifested."

"Why not?"

"Because." Castiel is puzzled now. "I must blend in."

Dean laughs. "You tell almost everyone we meet that you're an angel of the Lord," he points out. "That's not exactly stealthy."

"Regardless," Castiel answers. "Your world is not designed for angels, and so I keep them hidden."

"Yeah," Dean muses, "I guess it would be kind of embarrassing to go into a gas station and knock all of the Doritos off the shelf with a wing. Those aisles are tiny." Castiel hopes that he will leave now his questions have been satisfied, but he throws himself down in the grass and pats the ground next to him. It takes Castiel a moment to realize that Dean is inviting him to sit as well. Human gestures are still largely a mystery to him. He remains standing.

"Is Sam awake?" he asks. Dean shakes his head and Castiel is pleased. Though he would not have chosen to share this with either Winchester, he prefers that it is Dean. Both brothers are good men, but where Dean's mind is fairly straightforward, Sam's is a maze of conflict and darkness. Dean will not question him; he will accept at face value the fact that Castiel wished to feel the sun against his skin. It is a simple, primal desire, and Dean is well versed in them.

"Come on, sit down," Dean insists. "It's a nice day. Might as well enjoy the morning." There is trouble in his words, the seed of shadows that has dogged him since he was raised. Castiel knows what weighs on him but he does not mention it. He is a guardian, not a friend, not an advisor. Dean's problems are his own, though Castiel aches at the pain he hears in the human's voice. If absolution was his to give, he would pass it all to Dean.

He sits quietly, arms around his legs, relaxing his wings somewhat. Dean tries to pretend he is not interested. He watches cars, the trees, a beetle climbing up a blade of grass, all the while sneaking glances from the corner of his eye. Castiel tires of the forced subterfuge quickly and speaks before Dean starts to whistle innocently.

"I do not mind if you look at them." Dean starts to protest and Castiel silences him with a glance. "It is natural to be curious." He spreads them slightly, flexing them so that the feathers stretch and separate. "Forgive their appearance. They were... damaged."

"Yeah, you're missing pieces," Dean says, craning his neck. "How'd that happen? Big fight with the Devil or something?"

"Hell is a dangerous place, even for an angel," Castiel answers. Dean flushes. The swirl of his guilt is like a whirlpool, sucking away what pleasure he took in the sight of an angel's wings.

"I'm sorry," Dean says. "I didn't know."

"There was no reason that you should," Castiel replies. He does not comprehend the human impulse to shoulder the burdens of others. Castiel volunteered to go into Hell after Dean. Of all his fellows, he was the most moved by the brothers, the most drawn to Sam's struggles and Dean's steady strength. Though he regrets the aesthetic damage and does not care to observe it, he would tear his wings off entirely to preserve the beauty of this one human being's mind.

Silence falls between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Castiel, accustomed to the rigid hierarchy of the angelic host, does not understand the complexities of human interaction. Dean is not at fault, but he blames himself. Where before he was interested in Castiel's wings, now he feels shame when he looks on them, and Castiel struggles to find words that will stop this strange spiral of self-recrimination.

"I chose to go to Hell," he offers. "I was not ordered." Dean manages a smile, a nod. He is still upset, but he buries it adroitly. Years of practice have afforded him that gift.

"And hey," he says, "what's life without a few scars?" He rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, self-consciously displaying part of the scar on his shoulder. The mark of Castiel's hand. Castiel wishes suddenly to place his hand there again, to feel the raised flesh beneath sensitive fingertips. "We both got each other, I guess."

"You did not do this to me, Dean," Castiel says firmly. Then, moved by his own desire, he stretches a wing out further, extending it to Dean. Perhaps, humans being such tactile creatures, Dean will understand that no blame is affixed to him if he is allowed to touch. "Would you like to feel them?"

It is a huge leap of faith for both of them. Dean is stunned by the offer and Castiel is braced for the rough drag of human fingers along his feathers. The first touch is tentative. Castiel exhales sharply. Dean drags in a breath. They freeze, crystallized in a moment that neither of them anticipated. Dean's fingers tremble slightly.

"Is this okay?" he asks, hesitant. Castiel nods. His voice is lost in the intimacy of that single, small gesture. To let a human see him vulnerable, to let a human touch that which outwardly marks him, is madness. He will surely be punished for this. No other indiscretion could be so monumental.

Dean strokes again, his fingers gliding over neat contour feathers, his touch light, almost awed. Castiel ruffles them, flexing the contour feathers up and out so that Dean can see the downy feathers beneath. He laughs softly, leans closer. His fingertips brush them softly and a tickle of pleasure shoots up Castiel's spine. He attempts to hide it but Dean, so adept with the reactions of his human partners, notes the minute reaction and repeats the action. He stares intently at Castiel's face, gauging his response as his fingers dig, firmly, gently, into the sensitive places beneath Castiel's stiff outer feathers.

And so Castiel rewards his persistence with a soft sound of pleasure. Jimmy Novak guides the forming of the sound, for Castiel has no experience with physical pleasure and draws instead on his vessel's host of expressions. Dean recoils in surprise and for a moment, Castiel is worried that he has misstepped. But delight is blossoming in Dean's eyes, a smile stretching his face.

"You just moaned," he accuses. Castiel, not quite comprehending the import of that, nods in agreement. 

"I did," he acknowledges. "It felt very good."

"Yeah," Dean answers. There is laughter on his lips, brightness in his mind. He is excited, pleased by this discovery. All of his troubles, his guilt, have washed away in the face of it, a fact which Castiel tucks away for later perusal. Now, he is flush with his own physicality, reacting to the scintillation of Dean's mind. In this moment, with a smile on his lips and his fingers exploring so gently the tender places between feathers, Dean is warmer than the sun, so perfect in his humanity that Castiel is moved to more. How to express his appreciation, the brightness of his love for Dean Winchester in this moment? He looks to his vessel again, allows years of muscle memory and human experience to guide his movements.

And he kisses Dean.

It is a spontaneous thing and it unfolds as such, his nose bumping against Dean's cheekbone, their teeth clashing until Castiel pulls back a little, cups Dean's face with his hands, guides the kiss to its natural conclusion. It is a chaste thing, a gesture of pure adoration, but he lingers after it is over and Dean's breath is hot against his cheeks. Castiel licks his lips, searching for a taste, a clearly defined sensation that says _this is Dean Winchester, this is the essence of him_ but there is only the faintly salty tang of skin. Disappointed, he drops his hands.

"Why did you do that?" Dean asks. He is not angry, nor did it occur to Castiel that he would be. He feels much from Dean's mind and knows that his desire run in many channels. He is only curious now, staring at Castiel with bright eyes. The angel is suddenly, unaccountably, uncomfortable.

"It was not what I expected," he answers, which is no answer at all but which Dean appears to understand. He is surprisingly well versed in the subtleties of emotion, though often he chooses not to indulge in them. Perhaps it is because he feels so deeply that he touches upon most relationships so very lightly.

"Well, you don't really know what you're doing, do you?" Dean says. It has the tenor of a statement meant to soothe. Castiel shrugs his shoulders. His wings move with them, broad and powerful and restless.

Dean's fingers find his jaw, turn his face. There is a smile on Dean's lips, a depth of emotion in his eyes that nearly drowns Castiel. "I love you," he says simply. His words have the power of truth behind them and shock shows momentarily on his features before smoothing away. He is amused now, fondness radiating from him like heat from a flame.

"You're a weird guy, Castiel," he answers.

Their lips touch again, tender this time, slow. Dean's mouth is an expert caress, there and gone, working and shifting until he finds that one perfect angle. His lips part, clear invitation, and Castiel follows Dean's lead. Tongues touch, retreat, then Dean pushes forward, his arm looping around Castiel's neck, pulling him close to lock him in a tight embrace. His body's response is overwhelming, pleasure rocketing down nerve endings starved for sensation, and Dean's hands are everywhere, stroking his exposed skin, tearing at the clothes that he still wears. Castiel is aware of nothing but Dean, every movement that he makes, the ripple of muscle beneath his skin, the flood of conflicting desires that pour from him.

Dean guides him gently down and Castiel's skin prickles at the feel of the grass beneath him. The crushed blades surround him with their perfume, green and lush, and then Dean is lowering himself between Castiel's legs, nudging them open. His shirt is gone, pulled off and cast aside, and the warmth of his skin is a revelation. Castiel is no stranger to a joining of minds; he has melded his being with that of his brothers and sisters before, but never like this. When an angel joins with another, there is a transfer of knowledge, a pleasure in knowing that you are not singular, an affirmation that you are part of the whole.

This, he thinks, is wholly different. This is something more primal, an instinct that cannot be denied. Castiel struggles to stay separate from it, to analyze what Dean is doing, but the absolute humanity of it overwhelms him. Dean's hands trail down his sides, pluck at his pants, and then time is still. Castiel lays trembling in the grass and the sun as Dean's powerful fingers draw him out. He is more sensitive than he ever imagined, and understands now the expressions of mindless pleasure, the drive to do this over and over that so plagues humans.

Dean is murmuring softly, his rough voice a low counterpoint to the rasp of his skin against the angel's. Castiel flirts briefly with shame and discards it immediately. This is sublime, a welter of sensation and emotion that can only be of divine purpose. He arches his back, silently begging for more, and Dean complies. There is the soft pop of a button, the rasp of a zipper. Castiel strains up, knowing what Dean intends, and when the aching skin of Dean's erection brushes his own the air leaves his lungs in a rush.

Dean strokes them both together and Castiel is undone. He murmurs, whispers Enochian against the shell of Dean's ear, and Dean laughs and kisses his throat. His fingers are expert, his touch light and teasing, and though Castiel knows how this ends and can feel his body reaching for it, Dean refuses him again and again, shifting his touch, varying the pressure of his fingers. It is delirious, writhing against the grass and the dirt, trying to pick out the features of Dean's face, backlit as it is by the sun. Dean's wrist turns deftly and Castiel trembles, his wings twitching. The small movement draws Dean's attention, wakes an avid expression in his eyes.

Castiel understands immediately and closes his eyes.

His wings flex, lifting from their positions against the ground, curving up and over Dean's body as he presses down against Castiel. Feathers stroke his back, soft and cool, and Castiel can sense his pleasure at the feeling. He brings them down tighter, embracing Dean with them until the two of them are enclosed in a feathered cocoon. Sunlight filters through the gaps where he lost handfuls of flight feathers, the dappled light playing across their bodies as Dean kisses him again. It's more frantic now, back to the clashing teeth and clumsiness, but now there is movement informing it, Dean rocking back and forth above him as he thrusts into his own hand. The balletic movement of his hips, hands, mouth, all working in symphony, is hypnotic and Castiel surrenders, allowing it to draw him in and under until he's drowning in Dean, soaking in every nuance of his skin, every sigh, every stroke, every single thing. Their hearts beat at the same time, they draw breath at the same time, and Castiel is painfully, perfectly aware of the movement of every last part of the infinitely complex machine that is Dean Winchester, and how each of those things - from the hand that strokes his aching arousal to the lashes that flutter just so against his cheek - blend into a single whole that thunders through his body, wiping away the awareness of anything but pleasure and Dean, Dean and pleasure, until the two are inextricably intertwined and he knows that they will never again be separate in his mind.

He hardly realizes that his climax is upon him before it happens. It is simply another wave, another swell in the ocean of his desire, but this one breaks, this one crests and he twists into the grass and rakes his nails down Dean's chest. Dean shushes and purrs, kissing his neck, clasping him tight, and the culmination of their brief first meeting spills across his chest in a hot flood. He cries out in his own voice, his _true_ voice; behind them, the hotel windows shatter. The cars on the overpass jitter and shake for a moment. Their GPS systems restart themselves. Their radios go to static. If his brothers and sisters were not watching him before, they are watching him now, and Castiel stares up into the contortions of bliss flickering across Dean's features and he does not care.

Dean's pleasure follows his, warm and sticky, and Castiel dips his fingers into it as Dean pulls back. His wings open, spreading wide again, and Dean rolls onto his side, eyes shut, expression sleepily satisfied. "Morning sex," he murmurs. "Best kind. Aww, Cas! Don't do that!" And Castiel pauses, fingertips in his mouth, the taste of their union coating his tongue. It is strange. Pleasurable, but strange, and evidently not something that is done, because Dean is laughing, tugging his hand down. He wipes them clean with his undershirt and begins to put himself back together.

"Get your clothes back on," he advises. "Sammy'll be down here in a second." And Castiel complies because he does not know what else to do. There is a strange hollowness inside him now, as though he has given part of himself that he can never get back. Slowly, silently, he tucks his wings down and pulls on the clothes that his vessel came in. Dean helps him with the tie, kisses him lightly as he shrugs his way into the jacket.

Only a few minutes after he is fully dressed, Sam comes trotting down the hill. "Cas, Dean!" he calls. "You guys see anything?"

"Nope," Dean answers, shaking his head slightly when Castiel opens his mouth. This is a secret between them, it seems, and Castiel holds his silence, staring up at Sam Winchester's puzzled face.

"What are you doing out here anyway?" he demands.

"Just enjoying the sun, little brother," Dean answers, climbing to his feet. He winks at Castiel, the curve of his lips promising more, later. Castiel, puzzled and bereft and hopeful, follows the brothers like a shadow. Already, a chill is creeping back into his wings.


End file.
